


The Dauntless Ones

by Samuraisaucefrites



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Action, Battle, Darkspawn, F/F, F/M, Feels, Fight Scene, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Multi, Other, Romance, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:21:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27750688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Samuraisaucefrites/pseuds/Samuraisaucefrites
Summary: A collection of vignettes in companion/NPC POVs from DAO, DA2, and DAI
Relationships: Fenris & Female Hawke (Dragon Age)
Kudos: 1





	1. When the Drums of Battle fall Softer than the Beat of Your Heart: Carver Hawke POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An intimate look at the battle of Ostagar from the Point of View of Infantry Soldier Carver Hawke

Carver Hawke grimaced as he turned his head, shielding his face from the black spray of Darkspawn blood. The sulphuric stench from the horde dropped soldiers from his left and right before their bodies were riddled with holes from bladed weapons and arrows.

 _How in Andraste’s Ass are these beasts such skilled archers?_ The thought passed through the young soldier’s mind. Years later, fate would find the young soldier devoting his life to destroying Darkspawn. Today, the scent of tainted blood soured the battlefield, it was far from his childish fantasies of battle. 

Arcing his arms above with a heavy swing, his two handed sword cleaved the head of an approaching genlock. The soldier to his left called out before the metal of a blade erupted through the back of the man. Carver, remembering his footwork, turned about face and brought the force of his weapon through the shoulder of the Hurlock. Unable to free their weapon in time, the Hurlock was sliced asunder. 

In a violent yank, Carver freed his sword from the spine of the darkspawn and continued to cut his way through the horde. He shook off his metal helmet as to see the situation better. His black hair matted with sweat and dirt. 

The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, he whipped around to see two Hurlock Alphas, ghoulish mockeries of the human form with pale grey flesh and a darkness staining their facial features. The creatures sliced the air, their weapons just missing Carver. He dropped to his knees, skewering both of the creatures in a single thrust. As he withdrew the blade, the scent of the black ichor caused him to gag, choking back the contents of his stomach. 

Time suspended for a moment, the tower of Ishal bloomed with illumination, Carver wiped his mouth clean with his forearm. 

“COME ON YOU BASTARDS!” The young soldier cried, feeling the thrill of knowing the Darkspawn horde was soon to feel the full force of the Ferelden Army. Logain was a legend unto himself, the soldiers of Cailain’s army revered the man and Carver could feel the morale of the men and women fighting beside him surge. For a moment they pushed out.

In the battle of mankind versus darkness, there was a moment of victory. And in the length of a heartbeat, everything changed.

“Retreat! They’ve called the retreat!” The aged knight Rushire howled. The man, almost half Carver’s height but double his width, all shoulders and calves, limbed a genlock to death. One cut for each arm and leg, with a final swing through the neck, punctuation ending a bloody sentence. 

“What do you bloody mean, retreat? Where’s the cavalry!” Carver called back in response. The little circuit of fear finding ground in the hollow behind his sternum. He fought on, raising his blade to block the blow from an axe. The shock of energy from absorbing the hit dispersed the fear, surging through his muscles like an electric bolt. 

“Carver! Carver!” someone cried far away, or right beside him. He couldn’t tell. 

Swing, step, slice, and spin, he tore through five more hurlocks. They sloped and tumbled to the ground like straw stuffed dummies. Somewhere his father told him to slow down, which couldn’t be right, since he was dead. Malcolm was never really gone, his voice and council haunted Carver’s thoughts, but there wasn’t time for nostalgia. No more thoughts or time for those who weren’t on the battlefield today.

A path cleared revealing a large granite boulder, perfect for getting a better look at the situation on the battlefield. He scrambled atop the giant rock in time to see an Ogre, a creature so hideous he almost vomited again, snatch the Ferelden king. The king’s armor glittered under the light of the tower’s lit beacon. 

In an effortless movement, the horned grotesque monster ripped the king in half before discarding the corpse like a frustrated child with a broken toy. Carver felt himself screaming, but he didn’t know what he was saying. From his elevated perch, he drove his sword into the Hurlock Alpha at the base of the rock. He made corpses of all the Darkspawn who dared to come within striking distance. 

Each beat of his heart thundered in the young soldier’s head. It kept time, like a dance. A chorus of shouts and cries from familiar voices came from behind. Whatever they said, didn’t matter. The king was dead. The king was dead? The king was dead. Onward he fought. Every last Darkspawn needed to atone for the death of the king.

Human arms wrapped around Carver’s limbs and suddenly Carver felt himself being pulled backwards. He screamed.

“We’ve got to run,” one of the men said. His voice hoarse and wavering, he was afraid. The fear in the man reignited the fear inside Carver.

“Let’s go!” Carver yelled, kicking himself free of their grip. Together they began their retreat. Dodging arrows and advanced enemies. Of the men who pulled Carver away, only Carver survived the rout. 

He outran everyone around him, part of him regretted not defending his fellow soldiers. He kept reminding himself he wasn’t a coward, he was running home. Bethany, Leandra and Marian needed to leave. He was the Hawke family’s last hope. His thighs burned as the build up of lactic acid in muscles became almost unbearable. He pushed on. 

Not a usually religious man, Carver whispered a prayer to Andrase and the Maker. He promised to trade his life for his family’s. Malcom said their safety was now his responsibility. He needed to see his twin’s smiling face, Bethany was the best of them. He knew his older sister was doing what she could to keep Bethany and Mother out of danger. Marian was also lure for trouble. Despite the burning in his legs and lungs, he didn’t stop running until he reached the village of Lothering. 


	2. Reconciling the Loneliest Night: Fenris POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the events of All That Remains, Fenris visits Marian Hawke at her estate. He finds himself in a situation he’s unable to extract himself from.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: this piece is mostly fluff with some allusions to Fenris’s past trauma.

Lonesome Contact

He didn’t intend to stay so late. Here, in Hawke Manor was the last place he should be, and yet, there he persisted. Marian Hawke, once again, managed to defy logic and all sense as she managed to fall asleep leaning against Fenris’s shoulder while still sitting up. They were seated on the edge of her bed. Minutes before, her body shook with sobs, and now all he could hear were the little huffs she made with her sleeping breath. 

He toyed with the idea of laying back, sinking into the pillowy down bedding, which were softer and smelled better than the sheets in his own mansion. His nose wrinkled as he inhaled deeply, anise and vanilla. Marian favored more earthy scents. He tilted his head down, the bright notes of geranium and vetiver hit him like a hammer to the face. This was a mistake. 

He straightened his free arm, placing it behind him, allowing him to lean back a touch. The feeling of her weight against him was cruel. Not a fortnight ago he could no longer contain himself, and visited with wanton intentions. Having desires outside his need for freedom was foreign and a little frightening. Neither of them was interested in wasting time with many words, she was just as willing as he. A tangle of limbs, sweat and bed sheets. He experienced pleasure he long ignored, or forgot existed. The experience ripped through his consciousness like his own Lyrium enhanced fist. 

What even was pleasure to a slave? He deigned to not think of the revelries Danarius where required his participation. Slaves do as they are commanded. He wasn’t a slave, he reminded himself. With Marian there were no orders. Only permission. 

Why did this have to be so complicated? He asked no one. Take the woman you’re in love—Before he could finish his thought, with the clumsy unconscious grace of the slumbering, Marian managed to wrap her arms around his waist and burrowed her cheek into his chest. The hardened leather chest plate he wore couldn't be comfortable. 

Fenris swallowed hard and moistened his dry lips. The room was getting hotter, it wasn’t him. It couldn’t be him. 

Three years ago when they met, she came to the mansion and they shared a bottle of wine together. A few bottles. It was the first time he remembered laughing hard enough his sides ached. In a building full of the finest furnishings, they sat on the floor recanting the battles through the mansion. He shared a little of his history, she shared a little of hers. One moment she leaned forward, dangerously close to his face, to grab the wine. 

It was an assault of senses, her soft fingers held his as she took the bottle, the geranium and vetiver in her hair, and the warm scent of her sweat. 

He was too afraid then, she was a mage, they just met. She’s still a mage. To be brave enough to kiss her? There were too many other obstacles he needed to face.

This was a bad idea. He needed to think about something, anything, else. He began listing people he knew, different foods, types of weapons, times he reached into people’s chest and ripped out their heart, but everything came back to Marian. 

He remebered the time the gang was fighting bandits by the docks and Carver pushed Marian into the water. Seemed innocent enough of a memory; then she climbed out of the water, holding her leather armor in hand and her wet clothing revealed every secret of her figure. He pretended it was nothing. He looked away, but not fast enough. It was everything. 

Time to go. 

“Hawke…” he whispered, his voice cracked and dry. 

She let out a little moan. The noise was somewhere between pleasure and the mewling of a pup. Maker, he thought, forgive me, she makes the most wonderful sounds. He just had to tell her. All he needed to do was wake her and speak everything he meant to say.

Not tonight, it wasn't the right time. Deciding he had finally had enough, he leaned forward and caught her in his arms. Hands which were tools for taking life, cradled her gently, and lowered her onto the bed. Holding her in his arms, she felt like home. For the first time the idea of home had meaning.

She squirmed a little, seeing her wrap her around around her chest in her sleep gave him a flash of inspiration. Taking the edges of the blanket, he wrapped her up like a child. For a moment in her life she could be simply cocooned and safe. He couldn’t stay, despite his own longing, but he could ensure she had some hours of rest. 


End file.
